


the season of cold making warmth a divine intervention

by fadeastride



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 21:41:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2748083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeastride/pseuds/fadeastride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s two weeks till Christmas and Pat’s pulling his second double shift of the week. The fact that he’s been at the store more than he’s been at his apartment in the past five days makes it less weird that he’s seen Resting Bitchface Guy three times this week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the season of cold making warmth a divine intervention

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "trying and failing to make the perfect gingerbread house" for the [hockey holiday challenge](http://considerthehurricanes.tumblr.com/post/104157069910/hey-all-do-you-love-the-holidays-do-you-love). Title from "The Atheist Christmas Carol" by Vienna Teng, because that song is wonderful.

Pat hates Christmas.

Okay, that’s not true. He loves Christmas. He hates Christmas in Chicago because it means he doesn’t get to spend it with his family.

Pat tells his manager he’ll work as much as he’s needed because spending Christmas alone stings less if you’re too busy and exhausted to think about it.

It’s two weeks till Christmas and Pat’s pulling his second double shift of the week. The fact that he’s been at the store more than he’s been at his apartment in the past five days makes it less weird that he’s seen Resting Bitchface Guy three times this week.

 

Except that RBG has come through his checkstand with the pretty much the exact same stuff all three times, and none of it is stuff he would normally buy. Pat has no idea why that dude could need that much powdered sugar, molasses, and candy.

He mentions it to Sarah in the breakroom and she snorts at him.

“Four,” she says, when Pat cocks an eyebrow at her. “He came in before your shift on Thursday, too. So. At least four times.”

Pat’s even more convinced that RBG’s crazy now than he was when the guy came in and spent like 40 bucks on nothing but seed packets and a giant thing of wheat germ.

Whatever. At least the guy’s polite.

Two days later, Pat’s doing some grocery shopping of his own after a shift because even he can admit that Chef Boyardee is not an acceptable meal more than once a day. He’s dead on his feet and, when he ends up behind RBG in line, he can’t close his mouth fast enough to swallow the question that comes out.

“Man, I gotta know. I keep seeing you and what are you even doing with this stuff?”

Resting Bitchface Guy takes a moment to actively bitchface down at Pat.

“I’m making a gingerbread house.” He frowns. “Well. _Trying_ to make a gingerbread house.”

Pat grins, tries to make it look sympathetic. “Not going so hot?”

The guy’s ears go a little red. “The gingerbread always ends up too soft and the icing won’t set. I get it all decorated and 30 seconds later it’s fucking collapsed again.”

Pat winces. “I’d offer to help, but I’m useless at baking. Now, if you were _cooking_ , I could maybe help you there.”

RBG looks at him appraisingly. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Pat laughs.

They pass the rest of the wait in silence but, after he’s paid for his groceries, the guy turns back around.

“I’m Jon, by the way.”

The way he says it feels kind of important and Pat can’t do more than gesture uselessly at his name badge.

Jon just smiles at him, this wide, warm thing that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s a really good look for him. Pat's so flustered he almost walks away without his own bags.

When Jon comes in a few days later, he’s buying more of the same, but his face looks less pinched. He tells Pat that building a gingerbread house has always been a family tradition, that his mom would make the gingerbread from scratch and then supervise while he and his younger brother decorated it, that this is his first Christmas away from home.

“It has to be perfect, you know?” He says it almost vehemently, like he's daring Pat to laugh at him. Pat _does_ know. Pat totally gets it.

“Being away from your family on Christmas sucks,” Pat agrees. “It never gets any easier. At least I’m closing on Christmas Eve. It feels less like Christmas when I have to work, and then it doesn’t suck so bad.” He doesn’t know why he’s telling Jon all this, except that it feels like he should.

Jon just kind of stares at him for a minute, long enough to make Pat feel a little uncomfortable, before taking his receipt with a nod and walking away.

Pat’s still pretty sure the guy’s insane.

On Christmas Eve, Jon shows up ten minutes before closing and saunters up to Pat’s checkstand with a pretty decent bottle of champagne.

“Well, well, well. Aren’t we fancy tonight?” Pat teases.

“I’m celebrating. Finally got that godforsaken house built.”

Pat puts his hand out for a fistbump. “Nice! You take pictures?”

Jon shifts his weight and drops his eyes to Pat’s nametag. “Nah, no pictures. But, uh. You could come see it? In person?”

Pat knows his whole face has gone pink, but so has Jon’s.

“Yeah, that’d. I could do that. I’m off in a few minutes, so if you wanna hang outside, I could just follow your car.”

Jon grins, bright. “Sounds good."

To be fair, the gingerbread house is pretty good. It’s not spectacular by any means, but it’s still standing and that’s really all that matters.

The champagne is great, makes them both warm and giggly as they talk over the Chinese food Jon had delivered.

Jon waves his chopsticks through the air, tells Pat about the year he got an airsoft gun for Christmas and had it taken away before noon because he shot his brother in the ass. Pat shoots champagne out his nose, and they both howl with laughter once Pat’s sure his nose isn’t bleeding. (Jon starts laughing while Pat’s still on the verge of tears, but Jon’s actually an asshole and fuck him anyways.)

Pat counters with the year his oldest little sister got a ribbon stick for rhythmic gymnastics and got it taken away by dinner for repeatedly thwacking Pat in the head with it. Jon throws his head back and laughs, says, “Head trauma explains so much.” He just laughs harder when Pat punches his shoulder.

Long about two in the morning, when they’re nursing their last glasses of champagne, Pat tugs Jon’s glass out of his hand and sets it on the table next to his own. He meets Jon’s eyes and climbs gracefully into his lap.

Jon lets his hands come to rest on Pat’s hips. Pat leans down till their foreheads are touching.

“Hey,” he whispers. “It’s technically morning. Merry Christmas.”

Jon kisses him, soft and sweet.

“Merry Christmas, Pat.”


End file.
